


I don't mind.

by missevalyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-CAM, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:56:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missevalyn/pseuds/missevalyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Moriarty’s message, there’s nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 30 December 2014

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unknownsister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/gifts).



> This is my submission for the Johnlock Valentine’s Day Challenge on tumblr. It’s for unknownsister, who was interested in something smutty; her prompt was "I don’t mind".
> 
> I, uh ... lied about being consistent with the updates. But, if all goes well, there will be seven chapters in total, and smut ahead — promise!

In the aftermath of Moriarty’s message, there’s nothing.

Sherlock’s return is met with conditions. He spends the first few days after the broadcast making rounds within the homeless network and talking to anyone who ever owed him a favour, never mind the heightened surveillance. Eventually, he tires of the darkened cars following him around London, and resigns to what he haughtily refers to as _house arrest_.

 _Britain was built upon compromises, dear brother,_ Mycroft tells him. But the detective never cared much for queen and country, and outright resents it now that the other man won’t allow him the luxury of relapse.

So he waits — and England waits with him, holding her breath.

 

John comes by at the end of the first week. It’s the first time the detective’s seen the doctor since they were standing together on the tarmac —  when he made the medical man laugh because he realised he no longer had a lifetime to categorise and catalogue every way John could, when he memorised the warmth of his partner’s palm because he knew how long the winter waiting for him would be.

But today, John’s smile is muddied and brittle, like the morning ice that forms over a puddle before being stomped on. They talk about things that don’t matter so that they can avoid the things that do. Soon, the silence between them expands until it fills the flat and there’s no air left.

When John leaves, he doesn’t take the silence with him.


	2. 27 March 2010

“ _Sod this!_ ” the former soldier started. He slammed his palm flat against the kitchen table, hard. Petri dishes and culture samples rattled away. “Married to your work? Right, yeah. Fine. But this?”

John made a vague, angry gesture; Sherlock raised an aristocratic eyebrow. He was still fully dressed and lingering in the doorway, scarf knotted under his neck and hands in his coat pockets.

“What exactly is this — _jealousy_? Because, whatever it is, it damn near killed Sarah tonight.”

The detective watched the doctor with an infuriatingly lazy lull in his eyes, unflinching and unaffected.

“And yet here you are,” Sherlock replied in a way that made John visibly bristle. He was just as imposing and arrogant as ever, acting a little too public school and standing far taller than he had any right to, and the military man was about to tell him so when he coolly pulled his scarf away from his red, raw neck. “I’m obviously dangerous. Why not go home to her instead?”

John tried not to stare at the bruising peering over the other man’s collar and tried not to grind his teeth. He failed at both.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind having a sidearm next to her while she sleeps,” the detective continued, shrugging off his coat. “In fact, I’m sure you could write all about your adventures with Dr. Sawyer.”

“Oh, I could start right now,” John began, bright eyes aflame. “ _Twenty-seventh of March: Sarah and I are no longer on speaking terms. Therefore, my current flatmate thinks this is the perfect opportunity for me to move in with her. Will remove my belongings from Baker Street in the morning._ ”

The doctor fished a crumpled cigarette of of his jacket pocket. Hardly an hour ago, Dimmock had slipped it into his hand. _You look like you could bloody well use it_ , the inspector muttered once they were out of Sherlock’s earshot. John hadn’t ever really gotten into the habit of smoking — it was one of many things he neglected after Afghanistan — but he accepted it out of politeness.

“No review of tonight’s performance?” Sherlock asked, draping his coat over the back of John’s chair.

John ignited the bunsen burner and leaned in to the open flame. His wrists were red, raw from his restraints, burns still fresh enough to sting, and the stubborn man nearly singed his hair before the cigarette was lit. It was worth the way Sherlock childishly scowled at the doctor for smoking in front of him.

“Thought you were originally going to take Dr. Sawyer to the cinema.”

John closed the line, letting the flame die.

“I wasn’t really interested in a story about smuggling rings and criminal syndicates,” he bitterly replied, leaning back against the countertop and exhaling haughtily. “So we went to the circus instead.”

John warily watched Sherlock step closer, all lean lines and confidence. He tried not to think too much about how he looked in comparison, his polished brogues scruffed and neat collar crumpled. The former soldier had even been careful not to wear his identification around his date — it'd been tucked inside his shoes instead, hidden out of sight and out of mind, along with everything else that belonged to his military life — and wished he would’ve after being mistaken for the consulting detective.

“What the hell are you after, Sherlock?” he asked before the other man could say anything else. “Because I haven’t a bloody clue.”

Sherlock tipped his chin a little higher. “Both you and Dr. Sawyer survived the ordeal,” he said, scrunching up his nose. “I’ve no idea why you’re so upset, John.”

“Right,” John started, incredulity overtaking his tone. “Because you mustn’t mind being alone half as much as I do.”

The detective’s expression made the doctor immediately regret saying anything at all.

Sherlock blinked and it sank below the surface again. “You see, but you do not observe,” he huffed, hand on his hip.

“I’ve still no —”

“She finds your military career off-putting. You know as much — did you discuss it in your interview for the locum position? Did she suggest that you’re _a little over-qualified_ to work as a general practitioner? And so you’re careful how you dress around her: careful to wear a blazer instead of a field jacket, careful to tuck your discs away.”

His sharp eyes knowingly darted down to the good doctor’s shoes and back.

“You could continue exchanging polite smiles and having polite conversation — you certainly intrigue her enough. But she’s already diagnosed you as _wounded by the war_ ; eventually, you’ll become her most important patient.”

Sherlock paused.

“John, she doesn’t deserve you.”

The former soldier refused to waver, even when Sherlock’s eyes flickered away.

“No, she doesn’t,” John quietly replied. He swallowed, thickly. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

He took one last inhale and dropped the nearly-finished cigarette into Sarah’s interrupted cup of tea. It hissed as the ash spread out across the surface, settling around the edges.

John didn’t have the heart to look at Sherlock as he slipped past, through the sitting room and up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm utterly rubbish with writing rows, and so I owe [the wifie](http://lassdippedinink.wordpress.com/) a thousand thanks for her help, as well as her keen insight in John's relationships. She suggested that Sherlock would be one of the very few people who isn't interested in "fixing" John because he doesn't view the doctor as a broken man.


End file.
